Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  Brant drove along side streets until they were out of the city, then headed northwest along narrow country lanes. Alison bounced between the two men as Brant maneuvered the truck around the worst of the muddied ruts. After about half an hour of driving past colorful tulip fields and low-lying vegetable farms, Brant turned into a grass-covered path practically hidden behind thick hedges. He drove a few more kilometers, then parked alongside the shelter, a relic dating back to before the War to End All Wars.

  Leaving Brant to unload the crates, Hendrik led Alison to the newly hung door, custom-fit and made of thick oak. After unlocking it, he stepped inside the dim interior and pulled the chain dangling from a single bulb in the low ceiling. Alison followed him, her camera bag slung on her shoulder, and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the poor lighting.

  “We created a room over there.” Hendrik pointed toward the rear of the shelter, where a second oak door was set in a wall of concrete blocks. He unlocked it and reached inside to turn on the lights. A string of bulbs, stretching from one corner of the room to the other, lit up the space.

  Machinery similar to that she had seen in the Welsh quarry purred in a corner. Metal rods with outstretched extensions, resembling sculpted trees, were braced to the floor. One of them held a few of the paintings that Hendrik had previously brought from the gallery. The rest of the paintings hung on the concrete wall.

  As Brant brought in the crates, Hendrik unpacked them. Alison photographed each item and assigned it an alphanumeric code that indicated the owner’s gallery. On a separate piece of paper in her black notebook, she wrote the name, artist, and a detailed description of each piece. On a master sheet, she listed the assigned codes and individual pieces for the three galleries. The work was tedious but rewarding. Her contribution to the preservation of Holland’s art might be small, but it was worthwhile. And the intrigue added its own aura of excitement.

  After Alison checked the items against the lists provided by the other owners, Hendrik and Brant carefully packed them in labeled crates. Some items were either attached to one of the metal rods or hung on the wall.

  Alison inventoried the last item, a porcelain pitcher dating to the seventeenth century, and handed it to her grandfather. He wrapped it carefully in packing materials and laid it beside other fragile items in one of the crates. Brant nailed it shut and stenciled the lid with the date—May 5, 1940—and the code referring to its contents. Before he finished the last number of the code, Alison snapped his picture.

  “What did you do that for, Miss Alison?”

  “It’s for your grandchildren.”

  Brant rubbed his sleeve across his forehead. “What grandchildren?” His only son seemed to prefer life on a fishing vessel in the North Sea to a home on the mainland with a wife and children.

  “Will is going to change his mind someday. When the right girl comes along.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Brant packed up his tools.

  “I’m sure I am.” Alison glanced around the room, at the paintings once proudly displayed on gallery walls now attached to concrete. At the stacks of stenciled crates and the gleaming steel machinery. “Do you mind if I take photos of the room, Opa?”

  “Quickly. It’s getting late and I don’t want to be gone much longer. Meg will worry.”

  Standing in each corner of the room, Alison focused her lens on the opposite corner and snapped the shutter. “There’s enough film for one more shot.” She smiled her sweetest smile. “I want a picture of my two favorite men.”

  “Do you hear that, Brant? Today we are her two favorite men,” Hendrik said teasingly. “But when her British soldier returns, what will she say then?”

  “She will forget all about us.”

  “Never!” Alison laughed, but only because they expected it. Their teasing, though well-intentioned, probed the tender, confused places in her heart. She hid her discomfort by giving them orders, posing them beside one of the metal trees. They stood, stiff and ill at ease, while she adjusted the lens.

  Even in the clothes of a laborer, Opa somehow managed to look dapper and prosperous. His mere presence dominated the shot. Alison shifted the focus to place Brant slightly in the forefront of the frame. “Smile,” she said, then snapped the shutter.

  * * *

  Brant parked the truck behind the garage, and they entered the house through the back porch. Gerta Brant opened the door from the kitchen as they took off their muddied boots. “About time you got back,” she scolded. She appeared relieved to see them, but a slight tremor sounded in her voice and tension showed in her usually warm eyes.

  “How long before supper?” Hendrik patted his stomach, apparently oblivious to Mrs. Brant’s mood. “It won’t take us long to change, will it, Alison?”

  “Sir.” Mrs. Brant’s hands twisted her white apron as she faced Hendrik. “Miss Meg asks that you and Miss Alison come directly to the parlor.”

  Alison touched Mrs. Brant’s arm. “Is something wrong?”

  “Please, miss.” Her eyes darted from Alison to Hendrik. “Miss Meg is waiting.”

  Hendrik slid his feet into a pair of cloth slippers. “Come, Alison,” he said, taking her by the arm. “Let’s see what has your tante in such a dither.”

  Alison preceded Hendrik into the parlor, and her aunt, a grim look on her face, rose from her chair.

  “Alison?” A man stepped forward from the shadows near the fireplace.

  She stared at him, taking in his gaunt frame and weary gray-blue eyes, then practically fell into his outstretched arms. “Papa,” she murmured. His blond hair, in need of a trim and slightly damp, tickled her nose. He wore one of Brant’s shirts and smelled of chamomile soap. His shoulders, once strong and broad, felt thin beneath her embrace.

  Behind her, Hendrik gasped.

  Pieter stiffened, but he smiled at Alison. “Look at you. So grown up.”

  “Where have you been, Papa? We’ve been so worried.”

  A shadow crossed his face. He turned from her and extended a hand toward Hendrik. “Father.”

  Hendrik hesitated, then clasped his son’s hand. “The prodigal finally returns home.”

  “If you will allow me.”

  Alison held her breath as the two men stared at each other. A strange sense of déjà vu swept over her at how closely they resembled each other. In that moment, she could see the man her grandfather used to be and the man her father would someday become.

  “This is your home,” said Hendrik, his voice husky. “You have always been welcome here.”

  Pieter’s eyes darkened and he opened his mouth, then closed it again, shaking his head. “I don’t plan to stay long,” he said too brightly.

  “Why not?” protested Alison.

  Before Pieter could answer, Mrs. Brant appeared in the doorway. “I’ve laid out a bit of supper on the buffet, ma’am,” she said to Meg, casting a curious glance at Pieter. “For whenever you’re ready.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Brant. A bit of supper is just what we need.” Meg turned to the family and gestured toward the dining room. “Shall we?”

  Alison clasped her father’s frail arm and smiled up at him. He returned her gaze with tender affection, then frowned and touched the pink ridge on her temple. “What’s this?”

  Momentarily confused, Alison flinched. Apparently Tante Meg hadn’t told Pieter about the shooting. But surely he would have asked about the damage to his masterpiece. He had to have seen it. She glanced at The Girl in the Garden and knew Pieter did the same.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him clench and unclench his jaw, the way he always did when he concentrated, seeking a solution to a dilemma, the perfect balance of a composition. And she knew from the thrust of his chin when the pieces clicked into an answer.

  He lifted her face to his and stared deep into her eye, his own flashing with temper. “Were you there? When that Nazi monster shot my painting?” He touched the ridge again and tears glistened in his eyes. “He shot you, too?”

 
Alison’s throat constricted, and she couldn’t speak.

  Pieter rounded on Meg. “I can’t believe this. We were here all afternoon and you didn’t tell me that my daughter had been shot?”

  “I’m sorry, Pieter.” Meg took a composing breath. “You were so distraught over the painting, I hadn’t the heart to tell you about Alison.”

  Alison wrapped her arm around Pieter’s thin chest, and he squeezed her shoulder. “I’m fine, Papa. Honest I am.”

  “We tried to find you, Son.” A hint of accusation tainted Hendrik’s words.

  “But I had disappeared.” The remorse in Pieter’s voice burrowed deep into Alison’s heart.

  “You’re here now,” she said. “Nothing else matters.”

  “Come,” Meg urged. “Let’s go in to supper.” She gave Hendrik a little push and motioned for Alison and Pieter to follow.

  “You tried to protect the painting, didn’t you?”

  “It just . . . happened. I didn’t think about it.”

  Pieter shook his head. “I’ve neglected you too long, Alison. But things will be different now. I’ve made plans.”

  A tense knot, part curiosity and part dread, settled in Alison’s stomach. “What kind of plans?”

  “Plans for your future.” Pieter gave her an encouraging smile. “To keep you safe.”

  They entered the dining room, and Meg motioned them toward the buffet. Hendrik had already helped himself to a heaping bowl of beef stew from the silver chafing dish. Alison mulled over her father’s words as she ladled stew into a bowl for him. Whatever could he mean, plans for her safety? A thread of resentment attached itself to the tightening knot. He had planned for her safety once before and dumped her with a grandfather she’d never met. In fairness, that had turned out all right, but it had been a lousy thing to do.

  She placed the stew before him and accepted his thanks with a gracious smile. She’d listen to his plans, but she would decide for herself whether or not to go along with them. Pieter had given up his right to tell her what to do ten years ago when, fighting back tears, she had watched him walk out of that Brussels hotel lobby.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  During supper, Alison listened spellbound as her father talked about his life in South America. Her imagination overflowed as he described his labors at emerald mines and ancient archaeological ruins. While living in Bolivia, he joined a friend on a ten-day expedition along the Amazon River. But he became deathly ill, and after being diagnosed with malaria, he had spent several weeks in a Brazilian hospital.

  By the time he returned to Dosel Azul, his two-room apartment was occupied by a couple of brothers who had no intention of leaving. Homeless and concerned about the news coming from Europe, he worked odd jobs to earn the passage for his return across the Atlantic. Hendrik huffed when he heard this and Alison knew what he was thinking. If only Pieter had asked, Hendrik would have arranged first-class accommodations for his son.

  Long after Hendrik and Meg retired, Alison and Pieter stayed up, sometimes talking, sometimes in contented silence. When he asked about a beau, she told him only that she corresponded with a British lieutenant she had met in London. She had no idea what her father would think of Ian, or what advice he would give her. She didn’t really know what he thought about anything of importance. The weight of that knowledge depressed her, and when she kissed him good night, it tempered the warmth of her peck on his sun-aged cheek.

  The next morning, Alison stifled a yawn as she and Pieter wandered through the gallery. He stopped in front of the display of modern paintings. “So the pretentious Van Schuyler Fine Arts Gallery has finally entered the twentieth century,” he said. “Did you bring about this miracle?”

  “No, these are only here temporarily.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Alison hesitated, aware that Hendrik had avoided talking about their afternoon trek to the secret shelter during last night’s conversation.

  “Don’t tell me the Masters got shot up too.”

  Alison folded her arms across her chest. Surely Papa had a right to know about the paintings. They were part of his heritage too. “We’ve hidden them.”

  Pieter’s eyes widened. “Where?”

  “An old air raid shelter between here and Amsterdam.”

  “It was a wise thing to do.” He nodded approval. “Especially after what happened in Poland.”

  “Opa heard that the Veit Stoss altarpiece has disappeared.”

  “I heard that too. Along with paintings by Leonardo da Vinci and others. What those brown-shirted brutes didn’t steal, they destroyed. All that history and culture . . . demolished.” His voice deepened in anger. “Hitler acts as if the whole world is his for the taking.”

  “The British will stop him. And the French.”

  “While Holland clings to her historic role as spectator,” Pieter said bitterly.

  “What else would you have us do?” Hendrik suddenly appeared from behind one of the movable display walls. “Attack the Germans? With what? We have no tanks, no skilled military men.”

  “That complacency will cost us our lives.”

  “Only if the Germans invade us.”

  “Which they’ve threatened to do.”

  “Only to frighten the Brit—”

  “Stop it!” Alison pressed her fist into her palm. “Please. Neither of you know what the Germans will or will not do.”

  The men eyed each other; then Hendrik turned to Alison. “You are right, schatje. Our zeal has overcome our manners.”

  Pieter shook his head. “If you don’t believe the Germans will attack, then why are you doing this?” He waved his hands toward the wall of modern art.

  “I have my opinions, but I don’t claim to be infallible,” Hendrik said pointedly. “Hiding the paintings is merely a precaution.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “You know something more we can do?” Hendrik spread out his hands. “Tell me.”

  Pieter took a deep breath and glanced at Alison before facing his father. “We can leave.”

  “Leave?” Hendrik grunted in disbelief. “This gallery? Our home?”

  “We can go to New York. Or Australia. Anywhere you’d prefer.” Pieter’s voice rose in pitch as he paced within the tiny area between the display walls. “You can move the entire gallery. Or sell it and start over. Or retire.”

  The color drained from Hendrik’s face at Pieter’s proposal. Alison gently took her opa’s arm, offering her support to him against an idea that was akin to heresy.

  “Please, Father.” Pieter stopped pacing and spoke in a calmer voice. “Think of it as a vacation. When the war is over, you can return.”

  “Papa, you can’t expect him to—”

  “No.” Hendrik held out his hand, as if he were warding off evil. “It is not to be thought of.”

  “They’re already rationing in England. How long do you think it will be before rationing starts here?”

  “We’ve survived hard times before.”

  “Stay, then.” Pieter pressed his lips together and his expression darkened. “But Alison is coming with me. Tante Meg, too, if she wishes.”

  Alison started. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You aren’t staying here,” Pieter said in a tone of voice that reminded Alison of when she was eight and he refused to let her walk to the corner grocery by herself.

  She involuntarily stepped backward as her thoughts became a kaleidoscope of confusion. Love for her father collided with love for her opa and all he had taught her. She missed Papa when he was gone, missed him desperately, but it was Hendrik who had given her pride in her ancestry, confidence in her abilities to manage the gallery. She had learned from him that being a Van Schuyler was more than being held hostage to an old family fate, a lesson she had almost forgotten since that day she heard a little boy play his violin at Waterloo Station.

  “You don’t know what it’s like during war, Alison.” Pieter’s voice took on an urgent note. “I
was here the last time Germany tried to take over Europe. Even if the Germans stay out of Holland, I, for one, don’t want you living through the shortages, the terror of not knowing if you’ll survive.”

  “You were here?” Hendrik’s face reddened. “You abandoned us. On Sunday, July 18, 1915, you abandoned us. Your family. Your country.”

  Pieter’s shoulders drooped, as if in surrender. “I had to go. You know why I had to go.”

  “Yes.” Hendrik started to reach for Pieter, then dropped his hand back to his side. He raised his eyes to the ceiling and said in a voice so low Alison barely made out the words: “I know.”

  Another secret. She glared at both men. Their eyes, already so similar, mirrored the same faraway look. Her anger faded as she sensed the truth. She had seen the look before, not only in their eyes, but reflected in her own mirror. “Mama. You left because of Mama.”

  Pieter nodded once.

  “But I thought you met in Chicago. At a baseball game.”

  “It was our story.” His eyes met hers. “Because that’s where our new lives began.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Monsieur Duret hurried toward them. “There is news. The Germans say their occupation will begin on May 8.”

  “Two days.” Pieter gripped Alison’s elbow. “We have to leave. This afternoon.”

  She stared into her father’s eyes, so very like her own, then glanced around the gallery. “No,” she said firmly. “We have to save the paintings.”

  * * *

  By the end of the day, the remaining paintings and sculptures that Hendrik had designated for the shelter had been photographed, inventoried, and crated. Pristine rectangles shone on the walls where the paintings had hung, the spots left bare until more substitutes could be found. Additional art pieces were packed up at the house, including the Frans Hals the Elder portrait of Johann Van Schuyler that had hung above the fireplace.

  On Tuesday morning, Pieter and Brant loaded the crates in the back of the produce truck, then stopped at the other two galleries before driving out to the air raid shelter. Alison had begged to go too, but Pieter wouldn’t hear of it. When Hendrik sided with Pieter, Alison reluctantly gave her father the camera bag so he could take photographs of the items from the other galleries. Then she busied herself baking bread with Mrs. Brant until the men returned.